It’s official


Is 30 too old to have a blog? I think probably 17 is too old to have a blog, and since I am now the equivalent to a 17 year old AND a 13 year old (prime blogging age), maybe I should have two blogs instead?

Yes, it’s my 30th birthday. It’s gotten off to a pretty tame start so far, but it’s only 9:20 a.m. and a lot of things could still possibly go wrong. I wish I could be one of those people who doesn’t even care about her birthday, who’s like, "oh whatever, it’s just another day" because guess what? It fucking is! And yet, my overcoddling parents and their self-esteem-ey oh-you’re-such-a-nice-little-girl upbringing deluded me into thinking that my birthday was supposed to be special (this and the infamous once-a-year "sugary cereal" with which we would get to start our days), and that brought about 18 years of heightened expectations met, unsurprisingly, with crushing disappointment. For the last 12 years I have taken a much more realistic attitude toward my birthday, the attitude of "remember your tiny little place in this enormous universe–even if you do get to replace Pluto as Ninth Planet…it’s still the smallest, after all." But it has taken some amusing misadventures to get here. Let us recap the dubious birthdays of my adulthood for "posterity," shall we?

Aug 31, 1994: I had just moved in to my college dorm and didn’t know a single person at college. My RA-type and hallmates threw me a sad little ice-cream party because my mom called and made them. They gave me a card signed by a bunch of fake people to emphasize the hilarity of how lonely I was at the time. Old enough to buy illicit substances, finally, but not bold enough to buy porn, I walked off-campus and bought a pack of Kools, which promptly made me sick to my stomach.

Aug 31, 1997: Princess Diana died, and I drank a bottle of Boone’s, purchased with my real and legitimate ID, on the stoop of my "town house."

Aug 31, 1998: My boss at the first job I ever had got fired; I spent my birthday tying up his loose ends and helping him move out of his office. Then I went out in NYC with my friends and went around proclaiming ecstatically, "I’m 22!" I remember feeling very grown-up. Until I drank too many froo-froo cocktails and had to go home early.

Aug 31, 1999: My ridiculous asshole boyfriend Simon, in the death throes of the one-sided verbal abusefest known as our "relationship," decided out of woundedness and spite not to get me anything, not to plan anything, and not to want to do anything. He bought himself new subwoofer speakers for his computer so he could hear the moans and sword douching on EverQuest better, and then we went to Odessa with his friends (I do like Odessa, to be fair) and I stewed in my stuffed cabbage while they enjoyed some inane conversation about guitar gods and how awesome Eastern Europe was now that they had capitalism.

Aug 31, 2004: My boyfriend’s father got seriously ill and we thought he wasn’t going to make it (he did!!!).

And now here we are, Aug 31, 2006, the 30th anniversary of my heedless and poorly-executed plummet from the womb (soon to be replicated by similar plummets in the gymnastics arena throughout childhood). I have an email-box full of spam, I’m visiting my parents and a guy from the roofing company just rang the doorbell and informed me they were going to make a "whole buncha noise" up on the roof for the forseeable future. It is, indeed, any other day, except possibly louder.

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